Letting Go
by WhyAye
Summary: When Lewis and Hathaway are assigned a missing person case, they also disappear.  But it's too soon to formally involve the police, so Innocent and Hobson have to take up the search.
1. Chapter 1

_This is the Hour of Lead -  
Remembered, if outlived,  
As Freezing persons, recollect the snow -  
First - Chill - Then Stupor - then the letting go -_

_From Emily Dickinson, #341_

* * *

The summer crowd at the Ugly Duckling is in a good mood, despite having to wait a while for service at the bar. The pub's garden is full of happy customers, including a middle-aged but classically beautiful woman who is greeting nearly everyone by name and working on a pint of bitter. The air is warm but not sticky, the evening sky settling into a deepening pink glow over the western horizon.

The woman finishes her pint and brings the glass back inside, setting it on the bar. She bids good night to the landlord and many of the others, hugging some, bussing some on the cheek, squeezing hands held out to her. Several of the well-wishers call her Milady, their eyes shining with fondness. She walks out into the road, looks west toward the rosy horizon at the large, stone house silhouetted there, and smiles a little. She strides firmly away from the pub, heading west. A few yards in that direction and around the bend is an iron gateway that grants admission to the stone house. None of the pub's customers is paying particular attention to the direction she takes. By the time the police question them about it, no one will remember many details about the evening, or where the woman went when she took her leave.

.

.

.

By now, the eastern sky is ruddy with the promise of the rising sun. The stone house is no longer a silhouette; instead, it fairly shines, pink in the morning light, even at this early hour. The dawn promises no respite from the heat wave of the past three days.

In the house's kitchen, the cook stands watching as her mistress emerges from the walk-in freezer. They look at each other for a long moment, both aware of the significance of their relationship and of recent events. The lady slams the freezer door, a bitter smile on her face.

The cook stirs from where she is standing and hands the lady a piece of paper – a handwritten note. "This alright, M'lady?"

The lady reads it over and nods curtly. The cook, delighted to have satisfied her lady, folds it, places it in an envelope, and seals it. The lady then takes it, a look of smug satisfaction playing on her lips.

"Alice?"

She needn't have said the name, she has the cook's full attention already.

"I don't need to tell you that I need your utmost devotion in this matter. You must never, never tell anyone about this, and must act as though you know nothing about what happened this morning. Am I clear?"

The cook's eyes gaze unflinchingly on the woman making this demand. "Yes, M'lady. You can count on me. I won't never tell no one."


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Sergeant James Hathaway shakes his head slightly in disbelief. He will never understand how his superior officer, Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis, can drink hot coffee on a warm summer morning. Not just one cup, either, Lewis is nearly done with his second cup already. The older man, sensing that he is being watched, looks up.

"What?"

"Just wondering if you noticed the temperature this morning. You seem to be enjoying your nice, hot coffee."

Lewis rolls his eyes. "I like coffee, alright? Anyway, drinking something hot drives your blood to your skin where it can cool better."

Hathaway's lip curls slightly, amused. "Okay, Doctor Science, then how does it cool when you're wearing a suit?"

"It's a summer suit! It's lightweight and all." He wants to further justify himself, but knows nothing will erase the smirk from Hathaway's face. He shuts his mouth, shakes his head, and turns back to his work, refusing to let himself be drawn further into the wind-up.

But Hathaway won't let go so easily. "No, come on, admit it. You know nothing about how the human body thermoregulates, do you? You're just making up the thing about drinking hot liquids. Or else repeating something your gran told you."

He gets a glare.

Nonetheless, Lewis continues to resist James's teasing, despite the younger man's comments throughout most of the morning that touch on hot coffee, lightweight suits, and cooling off by going out to have a cigarette. And he ignores the "urban legend" website links Hathaway sends him via email.

Just before noon, Hathaway pushes back from his desk in a decisive motion that gets Lewis's attention. He takes a breath and drops his eyes.

"Sir, I'm, erm, sorry if I was a bit of a prat this morning."

Lewis says nothing. It's clear this is leading to something.

James continues. "I'm taking Doctor Hobson out to lunch today and I'll, erm, buy your lunch too, if you want to come along. By way of apologizing."

The inspector smiles a little. Hathaway always feels badly when he's been rude for no good reason, and generally he finds one way or another to make it up to Lewis, something Lewis appreciates. One reason they get along so well is that each of them can usually manage to admit it when he's been wrong.

"Ah, that'd be very nice, Sergeant. What's the occasion for treating Hobson to lunch?"

"I lost a bet."

Lewis snorts. "Have you _ever_ won a bet against her?"

"Not. Yet."

This makes Lewis smile _very_ broadly.

.

.

.

The White Horse is not too crowded and the three have a pleasant lunch. When Hathaway gets up to settle the bill, Lewis leans over to Doctor Hobson. He keeps his voice low.

"Will you be around tonight, Laura? I mean, at home?"

"I expect to be. What's up?"

"I'd, erm, like to speak with you about something kind of important. Face-to-face." She frowns a little at the mystery, but Lewis sees Hathaway heading back to the table and he rushes to end the conversation. "I'll buzz you tonight, okay?" He winks.

"Sure. I'm intrigued." She smiles.

He says nothing more, but his eyes are twinkling. Hathaway looks from one to the other, curious, but no one volunteers any information and he knows it's none of his business. He also knows he'll be able to work it out of Lewis eventually.

.

.

.

As soon as they return from lunch, Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent is at their office door. She is in an obvious state of anxiety.

"You two are needed, immediately. Lady Monteith has gone missing, and I don't need to tell you this is very high profile."

This draws a frown from the inspector. "Missing person? That's not our usual thing, Ma'am."

She rolls her eyes in impatience. "I _know_ that, Lewis. But this isn't an ordinary citizen who might be off on a lark. Lady Monteith is a highly respected member of this city, and a personal friend of mine. I want my best detectives on her case."

She checks their expressions for further protest and, finding none, hands over the slim file that has already been collected. "_Please_ be on your best behavior, Lewis. Remember these people are not like you." And she leaves.

Hathaway glances to see if Lewis will comment on her last admonition but all the inspector does is shake his head and scowl. They check through the file and agree that the logical starting place is Sherston Manor, the Monteith's home. According to the file, her husband called the police after she went missing all night. He had last seen her, the report said, around noon yesterday when he left to see his financial advisor in London.

The house is of red brick with numerous chimneys and well-kept grounds. James pulls the car to a stop on the circular drive in front of the steps.

"How do you want to do this, Sir?"

"Let's do above-stairs together and then split up for below-stairs." Lewis is well aware that he has a tendency to give titled people the impression that he does not properly respect their lofty station in life. It is not unusual for Innocent to get a call about his behavior, a complaint that he overstepped the unwritten boundary dividing a working-class Geordie from his social betters. He had made a vow to himself to not ruffle any more upper-class feathers than necessary. Or at least, to _try_ to do better in that department.

They learn very little from Lord Monteith. He tells them he had no reason to think she disappeared intentionally, and he could find no evidence of foul play. But late in the morning, a letter arrived by courier, who could not, or would not, explain its origins. Monteith shows them the letter. It is handwritten in a flowing script and addressed to His Lordship.

"That's her handwriting, or else a very good imitation of it." The letter informs him she is in love with another man and that by the time Monteith reads the letter, she and her lover will be out of the country.

Hathaway can see that the letter saddens Lewis a great deal. He leads with the questions, giving his boss a little time to come to terms with the marital infidelity. "My Lord, did you have any idea that she was having an affair?"

The man stares at Hathaway piercingly. "Young man, this letter is clearly a fake. My wife did not leave the country with some other man." Anger bubbles just below the surface.

Lewis senses the conviction in the man's tone. "M'Lord, how do you know it's a fake?"

"She didn't take her passport. It's still in the safe. And she didn't take her medication. She _couldn't_ have left the country."

They are not convinced that these indicators would completely preclude her leaving the country, but they make all the right sympathetic sounds and soon are done asking Lord Monteith any more questions. His Lordship's younger brother and wife are also present, and they contribute even less. Lewis is relieved to be done interviewing the family. Hathaway heads out to question the driver, estate manager, groundskeeper, and other outdoor staff while Lewis questions the domestic staff.

The butler has gathered the domestic servants together, and Lewis is careful to interview them in rank order. He has, to his chagrin, received complaints in the past about his impropriety in dealing with household staff. He is determined to avoid that this time.

After the butler and the housekeeper, he questions the lady's maid, Elsie, leading her into the study where he has questioned the others in private. He gets through the basic set of interrogatories with little new information. Lady Monteith is a delightful, down to earth woman. She delights in comfort and friendliness. Everyone in the area loves her.

"She likes nothing more than to go to the Ugly Duckling for a pint and a chat with all her friends."

A thought flashes through Lewis's mind that this sounds like one upper class woman he might actually enjoy meeting. If only he _could_ meet her, and resolve this case.

"Anything else you think we should know, Elsie? Anything you tell me will be treated with the utmost confidence."

She drops her eyes. "Well, Sir, I do think she's having an affair."

This has his immediate attention.

"What makes you say that? Did she tell you?"

"Oh, no, Sir, she's never said a word. But I collect her soiled clothing, see? And sometimes her undergarments seem to have a lot of . . . _discharge_. As though she had had sex. And she disappears from the house sometimes with no explanation for hours at a time."

"Does she usually tell you about all her movements?"

"Well, no."

"So her going out without telling you is not that unusual."

"No, Sir."

"Does she ever stay out overnight?"

"No, never."

"And you don't know that this . . . 'discharge' in her knickers came from a man."

"No, I don't."

Lewis conceals his inner sigh. A highly-charged imagination sounds to him to be the most likely explanation. "Do you have any idea who her lover might be?"

The maid's face lights up. "Oh, yes! It's Lord Hungerford."

Lewis contains his skepticism. "Why him?"

"The Hungerfords were here for a party not very long ago. When he was with Milady, it was obvious there was something between them. A real spark. Neither His Lordship nor Lady Hungerford were in the room. Just the two of them and a few acquaintances."

"Wouldn't His Lordship know if his own wife was having an affair?"

"Oh, well, she can be very discreet. And His Lordship is gone a lot. And they never met here, so they must have been together at Lord Hungerford's house."

Lewis considers this information. "Okay, thank you for being so honest with me. Anything else?"

There isn't anything else, and in another couple of hours, he and Hathaway are sitting at a table in the garden of the Ugly Duckling, working on making a couple of pints disappear rather quickly in the summer heat and comparing notes.

Lewis does a lot of eye-rolling at the pretentiousness and rigidity of the household. Hathaway knows that at least half of it is done for his amusement, and it makes him chuckle.

"So, were the domestic staff knowledgeable in Her Ladyship's steamy secrets?"

The inspector snorts at this. "No. Some speculating, rumors, and innuendo. Nothing concrete that we can actually pursue. How about you?"

"Well, Winston the driver took her into the city around two o'clock. She was checking up on a painting they are having restored. So he dropped her at—" he consults his notes—"'Oxford Fine Art Gallery' and she told him not to wait, that she would walk home."

"Walk? It must be five mile at least."

"Apparently, she's a great one for walking and this was not unusual." He twists a smile. "And that's it, really. It looks like Winston was the last one of the household to see her."

"Alright, then. Next stop, Oxford Fine Art Gallery."

"Well, Sir, they're closed now, according to their website. They close at six." Hathaway is staring at the screen of his mobile.

"Oh. Well, why don't we ask around here? If her maid is to be believed, this was Her Ladyship's local."

Hathaway blinks. "Her Ladyship has a local?"

"It's what I'm told."

They go in to chat up the landlord. He agrees with the maid's assessment that Lady Monteith is down-to-earth and very friendly.

"Real easy to like, you know? She comes in a lot." He leans forward, conspiratorially. "If you ask me, she's lonely. Lord Monteith is away a great deal. A cold character."

Lewis looks surprised. "D'you think maybe she's seeing someone?"

"Well, it wouldn't surprise me if she is. She isn't glamorous, but she's a natural beauty. Know what I mean?"

"But you've never seen her with anyone in particular, or heard her say anything?"

"No, no. She wouldn't be that indiscreet, anyway. She always remembers her role in the community." He considers a moment. "I hope you find her. It would be a real shame if something happened to her. I can't imagine what's become of her. Can't imagine she would have abandoned her husband."

"When did you last see her?"

The landlord thinks for a while. "She was here yesterday, late afternoon, early evening. I didn't serve her, but I remember her bringing back her glass so we wouldn't have to collect it. That's the kind of person she is. She doesn't mind clearing up after herself."

"Do you know if she has any enemies? Anyone resent her or is anyone jealous of her?"

The landlord looks as though he thinks Lewis is from a foreign country. It takes him a moment to answer, he is that stunned.

"Absolutely not. Everyone I know loves her."

They thank him for his help and cooperation and take their pints outside. Sitting and finishing the very good beer, the two men are thoroughly enjoying the summer-warm, early evening. Lewis nods toward a great, stone house they can see from where they are sitting.

"Nice place."

"Yeah, Hungerford House." Hathaway begins to recite the entire history of the place when Lewis recovers and interrupts.

"_Hungerford House?_ As in, Lord Hungerford? Why didn't you say?"

Hathaway scowls at what he perceives to be a non sequitur. "Um, yeah. Lord and Lady Hungerford." He assesses Lewis's expression. "What?"

"According to the maid, Elsie, Lord Hungerford is Lady Monteith's boyfriend. And here's his house, a stone's throw away from where she was last seen, traveling on foot."

"Why didn't you tell me she said that?"

"I thought it was a flight of fancy on her part. She didn't have any real evidence they were in a relationship. And she struck me as being rather overly romantic. But given how close the house is, I think it's worth pursuing, don't you?"

They decide to walk to the house after Hathaway informs Lewis that the drive is "just there."

"How do you know so much about this house, anyway?"

"It's in all the guidebooks, Sir."

Lewis snorts. "The only interest I have in these fancy houses is that their inhabitants abide by the law, alright?" He snorts again. "Guidebooks."

Walking up the drive gives them some time to suck on a couple of breath mints that Hathaway produces. That and a cigarette effectively erase the hint of beer from James's breath. Lewis has a second mint.


	3. Chapter 3

Lewis rings the bell at the front door and steps back, scanning the front of the house. Hathaway takes a final drag on his cigarette and flicks it away, moments before the big door is opened by a man in a dinner jacket. "Good evening, gentlemen?"

They show their warrant cards and Lewis gives their names. "We're searching for a neighbor of yours who has gone missing, Lady Monteith? It's our understanding Lord and Lady Hungerford may know her. We'd like a word with them and any staff who are available this evening."

"I see. Please wait in the morning room." He directs them to a room immediately off the entryway. It is rather stiffly decorated in formal, ornate furniture. Lewis scans the room with distaste.

After several minutes, the man returns and informs them that both His Lordship and Her Ladyship will speak to them. He guides them up the broad staircase to a sitting room, decorated in the same formal style as the morning room. The detectives are formally introduced and offered tea, which they decline.

After nearly an hour, Lewis and Hathaway can tell their efforts will yield them nothing. Neither Lord and Lady Hungerford nor anyone on their staff can remember seeing Lady Monteith for at least a week. Nothing unusual happened during the past few days. No visitors have come to the house.

By now, the detectives have interviewed almost everyone present in the house and the footman is taking them down to the kitchen for one last interview, this one with the cook.

Lewis tugs on Hathaway's arm to stop him for a moment. He mutters into James's ear. "No one is giving us any real answers, have you noticed? It's not that they haven't seen her, they _can't remember_ seeing her. It's all a pack of lies."

"I had noticed. I wish we could get His Lordship and Her Ladyship separated and question them one at a time. He definitely knows something."

Lewis shakes his head. "I'm not doing anything that's going to get me in hot water with the Chief Super, not until we know something more concrete."

A throat is cleared. They look up to see the footman is waiting for them, tapping his fingers on his folded arms. "This way, gentlemen, if you please."

The footman escorts them into the kitchen, where a rather short and plump woman of indeterminate age is stowing a few packages in the industrial-size refrigerator.

"Alice?" The footman waits until she looks up at him. "These men are policemen. They want to ask you some questions. Give them your best answers. Make Milady proud of you. Alright?" She smiles and nods nervously. It occurs to Lewis that her mental ability likely falls far short of her age.

"And Alice? When they are done, show them out the back way. Understand? You're the last one they need to talk to, so they can go out right here. No need to drag them back through the house." He turns with an imperious air and leaves without saying anything to the visitors.

Lewis smiles in a friendly way and approaches Alice more closely. "Alice? I'm Inspector Lewis and this is Sergeant Hathaway. We just want to ask you a few routine questions, alright?"

She smiles and nods again. The answers she gives through the course of their interview leave little doubt that she functions at the level of a ten-year-old child, at best. They ask her about her day, what the other people in the house did, and if there were any visitors.

"Oh, yes, Sir!" She answers to the last.

They glance at each other, and Hathaway takes over on the questions. "How many visitors, Alice?"

"Two." She nods to punctuate her answer.

"Could you describe them to us, please?" Hathaway is certain that at last they are on to something here.

A frown of confusion crosses her face, as though she is being asked what is obviously a trick question. "Well, they're you two, of course."

"Ah. Of course. Thank you for your very honest answer." He smiles at her, and she beams in response. _Utter waste of time_. They've spent nearly an hour here, and have nothing to show for it.

Lewis gives Hathaway a look of patience beginning to run out, and the younger man takes the cue.

"Thank you, Alice, I think that's all the questions we have for now. Is this the way out?" James gestures toward an exterior door.

"Yes, Sir. Just go out there and you'll be outside." She smiles brightly, leaning firmly and somewhat protectively against a stainless-steel door set into the wall of the kitchen.

Lewis stops and turns. Something about her manner strikes him as odd.

"Alice? What's behind that door?" He nods in her direction.

She suddenly looks nervous again. "This door? It's the freezer."

"Can we just have a peek inside?"

She looks from one detective to the other. "I suppose you can." She pulls open the door and opens it a little way. "There's no light. It's gone out and Fredrick hasn't replaced it yet."

The ice-cold room is narrow, maybe only eight feet wide, but considerably deeper than that and the light from the open door does not reveal much beyond the first few feet.

Lewis pulls out his little electric torch and steps in further. It doesn't help much, and so he goes in three more steps, probing the depths of the room with the narrow beam of light. Impatient with this, Hathaway pulls out his own, much larger, light and pushes past Lewis. They can see something in the corner hanging from a meat hook that is a great deal more colorful than the sides of beef and packages wrapped in white paper. A woman's body.

The freezer door slams shut.

They charge back to the door and Hathaway tries the inner handle but it won't click. She's locked it from the outside.

"Alice? Alice, this is serious, you're interfering with a police investigation. Alice, please let us out!" Hathaway strives and mostly succeeds at keeping the panic out of his voice. He runs the light over the wall around the doorway, searching for an alarm or emergency switch of some sort, but the walls are smooth and uninterrupted by anything that might be of use to them.

"Shit." Lewis can only mutter the expletive in response to the helplessness he feels. Hathaway pulls out his mobile and thumbs the buttons. His shoulders sag in surrender and he exhales a long breath.

"No signal."

Lewis resists an accusatory comment, and digs out his own mobile, but the result is the same. "Shit," he repeats, shutting off the useless device and slipping it back in his jacket pocket.

Hathaway retreats to the far recesses of the freezer, concentrating on the body hanging there. There can be no dispute that it is Lady Monteith, and the marks on her neck confirm the other evidence—bloodshot eyes, tongue protruding between her teeth—indicating she was strangled.

Lewis twists an ironic smile. "See? I told you they were lying to us."

James casts the beam of light around the freezer. There is nothing else unexpected here. Boxes and wrapped bundles line the shelves, sides of beef and slabs of bacon hang from large hooks. James hangs his torch from an empty hook so its light spreads in a small pool on the floor. Lewis's torch lacks a loop for hanging, so he lays it on the floor, shining toward the door.

At first, they both feel merely foolish. But after ten minutes or so of examining their prison for any means of escape, they begin to experience a growing concern. And they begin to feel rather cold.

Hathaway inhales. "I don't suppose you told dispatch where we were going."

"_Me?_ Why is that suddenly _my_ job?"

"I'm not saying it's your job, I'm only trying to find out if anyone else might know where we are."

Lewis doesn't answer directly. "I guess that means you didn't tell dispatch either."

"I told them we were going to the Duckling. That was the last thing I told them."

Lewis feels an inescapable knot of dread rising in his throat. "Shit," he whispers to himself. In an effort to push away his fear, he turns snappish.

"Why did you follow me in here, anyway? You gave her the perfect setup."

"No way could you see anything with that little torch of yours. I was only trying to help. Mine's a lot bigger than yours." He can't help smirking at the unintended way that came out.

Lewis rolls his eyes. "Size isn't everything, you know, Sergeant."

"I'm sorry, Sir, but yours isn't big enough to penetrate properly. The darkness, I mean."

This draws a real scowl. "Hathaway, I am capable of following both of your meanings on me own here, y'know. I don't find either one very amusing, given our present situation. If you'd stayed out in the kitchen, this wouldn't have happened."

"It's not my fault the cook is a psychopath. I had no way of knowing that."

Lewis shakes his head. "_Procedure_, Hathaway." The men lapse into silence for some time, clutching their knees and shivering a little. Both try to think of something to do, and both are equally out of ideas.

"Anyway, how would you know if yours is bigger than mine?" Not that it matters, he tells himself, but Lewis has always suspected his sergeant is generously endowed.

Hathaway gives him a sly, sideways look. "Hobson told me."

"She never!" Lewis stares at him. "She hasn't seen my—" He adds in a low voice, "_Won't_ see it, unless she gets called on to examine our frozen body after this. And I very much doubt she's seen yours." Then he sees the smirk. "Oh, another wind-up. Very constructive."

By now they have been in the freezer about thirty minutes. Hathaway realizes they need to maintain their body temperatures in order to stay conscious until someone finds them or until they think of a way out.

"We need to get moving, Sir. Exercise. Get the blood flowing."

The inspector considers this with more than a little skepticism. But he can't find any flaw in his sergeant's logic. He stiffly gets to his feet.

"Alright, what do we do to get active in this little cell? Can't be more than twenty feet long."

Hathaway strips off his necktie and unbuttons the top button of his shirt. "Jog in place?" He begins to do so.

Lewis follows his lead, and soon the two are puffing and sweating slightly.

Hathaway is in practice, maintaining a fairly regular schedule of early-morning runs along the towpath. But Lewis has never worked at getting in shape and his age and relative lack of muscle tone soon catch up with him.

"Aw, man, I can't do any more." He's breathing hard and out of energy. He sways in place a bit, then sags to the floor.

"Survival of the fittest, you know, Sir." James's eyes light up with the tease. "Looks like my chances of surviving this are much better than yours. Is it okay if I eat your flesh to prevent my dying of starvation?" He grins.

"We didn't need to wear ourselves out for the difference between our physical conditions to be obvious, Sergeant." But Lewis takes the ribbing good-naturedly. And he watches as James switches to doing jumping jacks, his long legs and arms cutting measured arcs through the open space of the freezer.

Although he is unaware of it, Lewis's slight perspiration fairly sucks the heat from his body, and he cools far more rapidly because of the moisture.

Hathaway keeps at it for quite a while. Focusing on the rhythmic movement of the jumping jacks is especially helpful in keeping his thoughts from dwelling on their situation. At last he, too, is worn out, and as he settles to sit down, he notes with concern the curled body of his senior officer, motionless on the freezer floor. A slow fear creeps into his heart.

"Sir? Inspector Lewis? Are you alright?"

Lewis's eyes open and it takes him a moment to focus.

"Hathaway?" His teeth are chattering, but he manages to hiss a pointed question. "What the hell are we gonna do?"

"We have to keep warm, Sir." He gets down on the floor by Lewis's back. "We need to get together for warmth. Alright? I don't mean anything weird by this, but we need to hug."

Lewis merely grunts his assent. Hathaway curls up behind him, nesting his knees into the crook of Lewis's legs and tucking his arms under Lewis's arms and around the older man's chest. His breath is warm on the back of Lewis's neck, and Lewis can feel the other man's heat seeping through his back, slowing his shivering.

"God, you feel so warm." And he can't help smiling a little. The heat from his sergeant's long body is very nice.

"That's because I was exercising. We'll need to each get up every now and then and warm up that way."

But not just yet. Tendrils of cold twine around them, sapping their strength of will and numbing them from any feeling of urgency. Soon they both are asleep. The temperature of James's skin, where not pressed against the other man, is cooling rapidly. He has so little body fat that nothing protects the blood in his extremities from the frigid temperature that penetrates his skin. Their bodies spasm uncontrollably with their chills, out of sync with each other.


	4. Chapter 4

Laura clicks off the phone without leaving another message. It is the third time tonight that she has tried to reach Lewis. Each time, her mobile reports that his phone is "out of range." This means it must still have been on and functioning when it lost its signal. He hadn't said anything about going somewhere tonight. In fact, he had said he would be calling her later, unless work came up. Said he wanted to talk to her about something important. She had dared to think that it meant he was considering making their relationship more intimate. But why disappear without leaving a message if tonight's conversation was so important?

Her attempts to call Hathaway, too, have the same result. He is also "out of range."

Frowning, she calls the Kidlington station. But the information she receives puts her no closer to solving this mystery. Lewis and Hathaway had gone out together earlier in the day on a missing person report, but they went only a few miles from the city. And no new assignments had been given them after that.

It's not the first time she's been unexpectedly unable to contact either one, though, and there's nothing she can do for now except to keep trying every few hours. And she does exactly that, until around one in the morning, when she decides she really needs to give up and get some sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Hathaway awakens some time later. He holds his wrist toward the light from the torch: a quarter past ten. Or a quarter to three; he can't quite read the hands and numbers. The smaller torch on the floor has gone out and the larger one hanging provides only a dim light now. James gives Lewis a squeeze.

"Sir? Sir?"

There is no response.

James lurches to his feet. It's his fault they are trapped in here, his responsibility to find a way to get out. He doesn't realize it, but his mind is becoming addled from the cold. The slowed flow of blood has decreased the oxygen available to his brain, and he readily makes illogical conclusions about their situation.

He stares at the vent on the far wall of their cell. There must be a way to get that off. If only he can get the grating off, there might be a way out behind it. He totters over to it, his balance not quite what it should be. He examines the vent and can see its grating is attached to the wall with only a few screws. One edge isn't even tight against the wall.

He pries at it with his fingers, lacking anything else better suited for the job. It feels like it might be coming loose. He digs more energetically, paws at the edges, prying with his nails and trying to force his fingertips behind the metal flange. It seems as though the sharp edge is cutting into his fingertips, but he doesn't feel any pain. Getting the grating off the vent is the most important thing right now. He's certain he's pulled it and increased the gap a bit. It's so close to coming off, just a little more work will let him get his hand into the gap. If he can only get a bit more space between the grating and the wall, force it out a little further . . .

But the vent won't budge, and when he peers at it closely, he can see the grating hasn't moved at all. All of his efforts have been pointless. His fingers and nails are torn, but he notes with detached interest that they're not in the least bloody. He concludes he has done them no real damage, only the top layer of skin is missing. He doesn't see that the vent is but a couple of inches deep. Even if he had gotten the grating off, nothing would have been gained by their access to the narrow ducting behind it.

And it doesn't occur to him that his fingers don't bleed because there's no longer enough blood in his extremities to do so.

He makes one more try at the vent, but this time his heart is not in the work and he gives up after a few minutes. He stumbles back to where Lewis is lying on the floor and curls again around the older man, fitting his knees behind Lewis's legs and pressing his chest against Lewis's back, trying to create warmth where none exists.

Lewis stirs. "James?"

"Sir?"

"I'm sorry if I made it sound like this is your fault."

"I'm sorry, too, Sir. It _is_ my fault."

Lewis grunts. "Well, even if it is, that doesn't help us now." He's quiet a moment. "D'you think we'll be found in time?"

James's exhalation sounds more like a sob. "We _have_ to think that, Sir. Anything else is self-defeating."

Lewis is silent for several minutes. "James, if I don't get another chance to tell you, thanks for being my sergeant."

"Sir, . . . _don't_."

"No, I want to say this. I know how it feels when you don't have time to say everything you should. And I need to tell you that I've learned a lot from you. I know I haven't always been easy to work with, but it's because you push me, and that's good. I hope the ways I've challenged you have helped you develop, too. I . . ." he swallows. "I love you, James, you're like a son to me." He tries to stop his jaw from quivering. "And if we get out of this, I didn't say that. Okay?"

"Thank you, Sir." Hathaway doesn't know what else to say.

Lewis wishes he could tell Hobson something along the same lines. He of all people should know that rarely does a person know his own time of death so that all the loose ends can be tied up. Waiting for the right moment can mean waiting too long.

They shiver in unison for a while. After a very long time, Hathaway says the one thing that occupies his mind.

"I seriously have to pee."

Lewis snorts. "Yeah, I felt that, too. Must be the cold."

"No, I mean, I think if I try to move at all I'm going to wet myself. And you." His stifled voice reveals his shame.

"Hathaway, it's okay, man. Anyway, I already have done. I guess I was sleeping and couldn't stop meself. Go ahead if you need to."

Hathaway's embarrassment is not as strong as his body's need, and he sighs with relief as he releases control. The urine feels hot at first, almost burning as it soaks through both men's trousers. But the warmth it provides doesn't last long.


	6. Chapter 6

Chief Superintendent Innocent frowns a little when she notes that, for once, Hathaway is not in the office ahead of her. The room shared by her two top detectives is dark. And she is not particularly early this morning, having had to stop on her way in to drop her dachshunds off at the veterinarian for deworming and their annual checkup. _Odd that they're both so late_.

She tends to her paperwork for about a half an hour before a sharp knock sounds on her door. _Now what?_

"Come."

The door opens, and Doctor Hobson enters, with that typical air of hers: bossy with a generous helping of impatience at others' ineptitude.

"Ah, Doctor Hobson. How may I help you this morning?"

She is shocked when the doctor bites her bottom lip before responding. She has grossly misread Hobson's attitude. _Something is very wrong_.

Laura exhales and then inhales deeply. "Jean, I'm wondering where Lewis and Hathaway have gotten to. I haven't been able to reach either one since I started trying their mobiles around eight last night. Both of their phones said they were out of range." The worry in her voice is obvious.

Rather than question why the detectives need to be checking in with the pathologist, Innocent suggests what seems like the obvious next step. "Did you try them this morning?"

"Yes, about an hour ago."

Impatient with the doctor's lack of diligence, Innocent flips open her phone and clicks a few buttons. Then she frowns and clicks a few more. Scowling more deeply, she turns to her computer.

"Let me check with dispatch and see what is their last reported destination." She taps a few keys. Hobson comes around the desk to look over her shoulder, making Innocent scowl ever further.

"Okay, here. Yesterday, 18:10, going to the Ugly Duckling near Sunningwell. And that's it, nothing is logged after that."

Jean purses her lips, thinking. Then she does a quick search online, pulling up the telephone number for the Ugly Duckling. A few taps on her mobile and she has the landlord on the line.

"Yes, good morning, this is Chief Superintendant Innocent of the Oxfordshire Police. I need to know if two of our detectives came 'round your pub yesterday, around six o'clock?"

She listens for a moment. "Yes, two gentlemen, one quite tall . . . Mmm-hmm, I see . . . And that car is still there?" She gives Laura a nod and a hopeful expression. "Okay, we'll send someone out immediately. No need to have it towed. Thank you very much, Mister Leonard."

She rings off, but pauses before explaining, thinking about what she has—and hasn't—learned.

"Well, they were there last night, asking about their case. Then they were gone, and no one noticed when or how they left. But their car is still in the car park. What do you make of that?"

Laura puzzles. "Well, maybe they left something in the car that will give us an idea. Can you put some officers on it?"

The other woman shakes her head. "Without some evidence of criminal involvement, I can't make it an official police search until they've been gone at least twenty-four hours."

"That's ridiculous! Obviously, something has happened to them. They wouldn't both just disappear and not report to work."

"I totally agree with you, Laura, but I can't put officers on the search. You don't understand how important proper procedure is in police work." She ignores the doctor's eyeroll. She even empathizes: it would be unheard-of for both of these men to be out of contact overnight. But procedure is procedure. "What I _can_ do is grab the key out of the motor pool and you and I can go out there as soon as I finish up this paperwork. Maybe an hour or so from now? That is, if you're not doing anything more important."

A slight smile of relief crosses the blond woman's face. "Oh, that would be brilliant. I can't bear just waiting around, doing nothing."

Soon they are at the Ugly Duckling and it is indeed the detectives' car abandoned in the car park. Innocent clicks the locks open and they climb inside, one in front and one in back, looking for papers, notes, anything that might give them a clue as to the men's whereabouts. Subconsciously, Laura notes that the car's interior bears the faint scent of both men, the way their office smells: a mix of soap and cigarette smoke, with hints of male sweat and fried food.

This reminder of them gives her a sense of urgency. Innocent, too, is beginning to panic a little at their unexplained and uncharacteristic disappearance.

But the search of the car yields no clues.

"Why not go to talk to Lord Monteith and see if he can give us an idea of where they might have gone?"

Innocent stares at Laura with incredulity.

"Oh, and let him learn that not only can we not find his wife but we've also misplaced the detectives who are supposed to be finding her? The force would look completely incompetent!"

Now it's Hobson's turn for disbelief. "And that's more important than finding James and Robbie?"

"We can find them without humiliating the entire Oxfordshire police force."

Laura resolves to refrain from arguing for now. It's not going to help them find the two men. But they have no idea of where to look next.


	7. Chapter 7

A dim light shines in Hathaway's eyes. He has shifted, moved away from Lewis, and the torch is directly above him. He needs warmth, needs to exercise and get his limbs moving. Stumbling to his feet, he tries running in place but his wet trousers have frozen stiff in front and he can't manage more than a slow plod. It's not enough. He rallies his legs and arms to do more jumping jacks. He starts slowly, but after the first few his arms and legs loosen up a little, and soon he is snapping them open and closed, his heart rate increasing and his breath warming. He'll do forty, he decides, and then lie down with Lewis again and share his body heat.

In the middle of number twenty-six, his right foot lands on the small, extinguished torch lying almost invisible on the floor. It shoots away and Hathaway's ankle twists out from under him. He pitches to the floor with a gasp of pain. It feels as though a spike has been driven into his leg.

Lying on the floor, clutching his throbbing ankle, he realizes the significance of his injury. He struggles to regain his feet so he can keep moving, but the ankle won't support him and he sags back to the floor. No more exercise. No more warmth. Hathaway's blood, having returned to his extremities with his effort, cools rapidly before his body can draw it back to his core. The ankle soon stops hurting. His temperature drops precipitously, and he sinks into oblivion in a few minutes. He no longer shivers. His body has given up trying to warm itself.

.

.

.

Later, Hathaway opens his eyes. He is in the semi-dark, but the shadows reveal not boxes and hanging sides of beef in a freezer, but the warm radiance of firelight. He is on the floor of a cottage, a wood fire crackles nearby. Relief floods his being, they have been rescued. He is warmed; he can feel his skin glowing with the reflected heat. But then it is hot—_too_ hot—it is searing him, and he realizes with sudden alarm that his clothes have caught fire. Burning and in a panic, he strips off his jacket and shirt, pulling on the cuffs until the buttons burst off, and flinging the garments away. As he claws at his trousers, he is struck with a sudden clarity of thought:

There's no fireplace, no fire, no rescue. James has made another serious mistake. He is lying on the frigid floor of a freezer. The torch is failing, like a life about to expire. But there is enough light to see that there is another body on the floor near him. A man James does not recognize. He also appears to be dying, or maybe is already dead. As he slides back into unconsciousness, Hathaway wonders who the man might be.

.

.

.

There's a faint sound of jingling. Bells, perhaps. Then a voice—a female voice—melodious, soft. Familiar.

"Robbie?"

Lewis blinks himself awake and smiles when he recognizes the blue eyes that meet his.

"Laura! I'm so glad you're here. There's something I have to tell you." He can feel heat as she takes his hand in hers. He knows from this that what he is experiencing is real. Not a hallucination.

"I want to thank you for being my best friend. I'd hoped we could have maybe been something more, y'know? I should have said something, done something, a long time ago. And now it's almost too late. You have to help us, Laura. Or we'll be in here forever, and we won't see you again. I need to tell you I love you."

But she fades, dissipating into the darkness without an answer. Lewis raises himself up, trying to follow her, but she is gone. All he can see in the darkness is the shape of a man lying on the floor next to him. Or maybe it's a statue, the smooth chest and arms appear to be carved out of white marble. It reminds him of the Shelley memorial in University College. He has the vague idea that the man should not be bare like that, though he himself does not feel cold. He sees a heap of cloth nearby; it looks like a man's jacket. He tries to grab hold of it to cover the man, but his hands are claws, unable to grip. Still, he manages to hook a fold of the jacket and he drags it nearer and drapes it over the man. He wonders who the man is and whether he should know him.

Then there is jingling again, and this time he can see it comes from thin bangle bracelets on a woman's arm. The woman draws near, her brown eyes alight with pleasure at seeing him.

"Robbie!"

"Val!" He nearly laughs in joy and relief. And he feels as though his entire being is warmed when she wraps her arms around him.

"Robbie, I've missed you so."

"I missed you too, Pet. It's so good to see you." He kisses her, her lips warm and soft compared to his. It occurs to him that she hasn't aged at all since he last saw her, and he wonders how old he must look to her.

"Would you like to come with me, Robbie? We could be together forever."

Lewis has wanted this very thing for so long, believing he would never be happy until he could be with his one true love. But recently it has occurred to him he might not be ready to leave the living world behind. That he might have a chance at love again, to warm him in his remaining years.

He hesitates, his smile faltering. "Does . . . does this mean I'm dead?"

.

.

.

Hathaway surfaces to a semblance of consciousness one last time. So many wrong decisions, so many little mistakes, adding up to one inescapable, awful sum. He has lost his clothes, his friends, possibly his mind. And now he will lose his life. It's as though a candle flame has gone out, leaving only the charred wick. And he can do nothing more than let go of that wick. All he wants is a small, dark place to bury his own body. He can see such a refuge, very near. It is the dark space between a dead man's chin and knees, only inches away. He propels himself toward the cavity, burrowing his head into the man's belly as far as he can. He wants to ask forgiveness, but he can't remember how. Wants to pray for divine intervention. He used to know how to do all that, how to couch a petition for God's help amid a humble declaration of unworthiness. Divine intervention is his best bet for getting out of here. In fact, it may be his only way out.

Hathaway scours his fogged brain, struggling to raise the memories of his training. How to properly beseech the Lord to intervene on his behalf, how to posit his own humility and at the same time laud the omnipotence of the Creator. It evades him. The only thing he can remember is the first prayer he ever learned, and this he recites by rote:

_Now I lay me down to sleep;  
__I pray the Lord my soul to keep.  
__If I should die before I wake,  
__I pray the Lord my soul to take._

As consciousness fades, he remembers how it should end:

_Amen._


	8. Chapter 8

The women are sitting in the garden of the Ugly Duckling fingering their glasses of ice water and getting nowhere. Neither one feels like having a bite for lunch. Innocent is staring at the table; Hobson stares at the road.

"They must have walked somewhere. They wouldn't have gone off in a stranger's car or taken a bus or taxi when they have their own car. So they must be within walking distance."

Innocent considers this notion. "Maybe not, if they'd been drinking. The landlord said he served them at least one pint. They'd never drive themselves if they'd had more than one, but that doesn't mean they didn't get a ride somewhere."

Laura knows that this is true, but unlikely. "They wouldn't have more than one when they're on duty. And anyway, how could they get out of range so fast? We know they were here at half six, and I first tried calling Robbie at seven-thirty or a quarter to eight at the latest. If they rang for a taxi and had to wait for it, they couldn't have gotten far by eight."

Jean frowns, calculating. "You're probably right, but they also couldn't walk out of range in that time. There must be some other explanation." She thinks some more. "If they're in something like a vault or a cellar somewhere, they might have lost their signal without being very far away."

The idea that the men might be close by makes Laura's pulse quicken. She scans their surroundings. _Robbie, where are you?_

She realizes that she and Jean are both staring at a nearby manor house. She nods at it. "What about that place?"

Jean's mouth firms into a line. "That's just what I was thinking."

They take Laura's car and drive up to the front of the house. When they alight, both women can't help but to scan the façade as though they might see Lewis or Hathaway waving at them from an attic window. Of course, there is nothing to see. Innocent rings the bell.

As she nears the door, Laura sees a cigarette butt on the gravel of the drive and comes over to examine it more closely. She picks it up. "This is James's brand, isn't it?"

Innocent gives her a strange look. "I honestly have no idea. Is it?"

"Yes, I'm certain. Doesn't mean this is _his_, of course."

The door opens then, and a man in a dinner jacket scans the two visitors. "Good day, ladies."

Innocent flips out her warrant card. "Yes, hello. Chief Superintendent Innocent and Sergeant Hobson, Oxfordshire Police. We'd like to ask whomever is in the house a few questions."

Hobson suppresses a grin at her new rank.

The Lord and Lady are in, but they are getting ready for an overnight trip to Glyndebourne and inform the "officers" that they won't be able to stay long. Innocent is irritated at their utter lack of interest in the missing men. Laura feels a pang of regret, her own plans for a Glyndebourne outing with Robbie last year having gone sadly awry.

The Hungerfords further inform the women that they have not seen the two men; no police have been to the house other than the present visitors.

"At least, not that we're aware. You may question the staff but most have been given time off until we return from Sussex."

The few staff remaining in the house are also no help. With guarded expressions, they uniformly state that no one has been to the house in the past twenty-four hours. All the two women can do is return to the car, frustrated. Laura starts the engine and motors slowly toward the drive.

"Wait, Laura. Drive around to the back, would you? I can't shake the feeling that they're here."

With a grim smile at learning Jean feels as she does, Laura turns the car and follows the gravel around to the back of the big house, parking in the shadows. "I think you're right that they're here. I'm almost certain I heard the footman say something to the butler about 'more police.'"

A short time later, the Hungerfords' Bentley is brought to the front of the house, and within a few minutes it drives away.

Twisting her mouth, Hobson turns to the chief super. "Well, _now_ what?"

Innocent takes a deep breath. "Now we break in." She gets out of the car and tries a door that looks like it might be a servants' entrance. It is firmly locked. The other doors on the back of the house are also locked.

"What about forcing a window?" Laura eyes one that appears to be fairly easy prey.

Jean shakes her head. "That would doubtless set off the security system. If we could find one that's already open . . ." She scans the face of the building and at last sees one that is open. But it is small, and fairly high up on the wall. She scowls at it. She knows she won't fit through.

"What about that one?" Laura eagerly points to the same window.

"I'd never fit." She hates having to admit it.

The doctor manages to keep her face straight, despite the smug satisfaction she feels. "I think I can fit, but I'll need you to boost me up there. Then I can unlock the door and let you in."

This gives Jean a way to save face. Of course, they'll need to work as a team, and it only makes sense that Hobson does the breaking in, since it's not a violation of her professional code of conduct to do so.

"That sounds like an excellent plan. Erm, maybe you should take off your shoes?"

Laura kicks them off as Jean bends down low. Laura scrambles onto Jean's shoulders, hooking her feet around the chief super's waist. With the help of the vines on the wall, Innocent pulls herself upright, swaying a bit in the process. Hobson grips her tightly around the throat.

"Laura! Let go!" She can barely croak out the words.

"Oh, sorry! It's been a long time since I rode on anyone's shoulders."

"Can you reach the window?" Walking slowly, Innocent gets as close as she can, though she has trouble seeing the window since she can't put her head back to look up without knocking Hobson off.

Laura grunts. "Not yet. I'm going to try to stand on your shoulders." She clings to the vines, using them to support most of her weight and pulling herself up, struggling to get her right foot planted securely on Jean's right shoulder. When it is in place, Jean grabs Laura's ankle to support her.

"Good girl! Now the other one."

Encouraged by Jean, Laura resets her left hand so she can pull up better. But the vines she has grabbed give way. She gasps and manages to catch herself without tumbling off, though her heart is pounding.

"Laura! Be careful!" Laura glances down and sees that Innocent has a scattering of leaves and twigs in her hair and on her dress.

"Sorry!" The height and the tension are making her giddy.

The chief super frowns. "I've got twigs in my bra now, and they aren't very comfortable. And stop giggling or I'll drop you!"

She is soon standing on Jean's shoulders, peering in the window. "Okay, the coast is clear. I'm going in." Jean braces as Laura shoves off and pulls herself over the sill, disappearing into the house.

Moments later, the nearest door opens and Laura waves Jean inside. They are in the kitchen. It is quiet but there are small sounds all around them that make their scalps prickle. They know there are still other people in the house.

Hobson feels a sudden deflation as she takes in their surroundings. "Where do we start? It's not like we can call out for them. This place is huge. They could be _anywhere_." The defeat in her voice is clear.

Jean refuses to give up so easily. She scans the room. "No! They have to be in some kind of a cellar or vault, remember? Some place that would cut the signal to their phones. Like . . ." her eyes widen when she spies a stainless steel door ". . . _in there?_" Taking a deep breath, she steps forward to the freezer, pulls the locking pin out, and yanks the door open.


	9. Chapter 9

It seems to take forever to get them out. They are curled into the fetal position and folded into each other, one man's head buried in the other's belly, nested together in a bitter mockery of yin yang balance and symmetry. First they have to be disentwined, not an easy task with their stiff limbs. Then the curved bodies have to be gotten through the freezer door and into the kitchen. They have to slip the jacket off James's shoulders; trying to move him without doing so is impossible. Both women set their mouths firmly, not allowing themselves to think about the physical state of the two men. Or the body they see hanging in the corner. When they get the detectives out, they go back for the woman, but one glance at her tells the pathologist that the woman is already dead from other causes.

As soon as they get out of the freezer, Jean calls 999, requesting ambulances, backup, and a SOCO crew. She directs the ambulances and one backup unit to the back of the house, describing their location in the kitchen. The other units are to secure the house and anyone they find in it.

Laura presses her ear to Lewis's shirtfront. It occurs to her she's worked on corpses that were warmer than this. When Jean finishes her call, she sadly watches the doctor, who is intent on listening. Her efforts seem futile. The two wax-like figures are most certainly dead.

"Laura . . ."

"Shh!" Laura frowns in concentration. Then she hears a thump so slight she must wait for another to be certain she heard it. There! Almost two seconds later, but she is satisfied.

"Robbie! Robbie, wake up!"

She is rewarded by the fluttering of eyelids. Two pale blue eyes lock on to hers.

Her head snaps up and as she swivels toward James, she throws a glance at Jean. "Get a kettle going!" She places her ear on James's smooth, cold sternum, and realizes the other woman is staring in amazement at Lewis.

"MOVE!"

Unused to receiving barked orders, Jean snaps out of her stunned immobility and grabs the kettle. Laura continues with her directions. "When you've got that on, find a knife or scissors and cut off his trousers and briefs, and anything else that got wet and froze on him." She ignores Jean's horrified look and focuses her attention on James's still chest. "Come _on_, James." Then it's there, the quiet thump that could almost be mistaken for her own, except Laura's heartbeat is going a good four times faster. Two long seconds later, another. "Yes! Good lad!"

She peers at him closely. "James? Wake up, James!" There is no response.

Laura sits up, a grim look on her face, drawing the abandoned jacket over James's bare torso. Then as the kettle starts to steam, she jumps up, turns down the flame and starts checking cabinets.

Innocent cuts with difficulty the frozen fabric encasing Lewis's legs, relieved that for now, he has slipped back into unconsciousness. She peels off the front of his stiff trousers and manages to work the back half out from under him. Then she contemplates her next task, removing his briefs. "He'll be horrified if he wakes up and finds me doing this." She tries to make light of the grim situation, but Laura isn't buying into any humor yet.

"He won't remember it even if he does wake up. And besides, he won't be as horrified as he'll be if they have to amputate." She nods toward his groin.

"Ah. I see your point."

At last finding what she seeks in the cabinets, Laura sets up a teacup in which she mixes powdered Horlicks with the heated water, and adds enough cold water to make the mixture merely warm. By the time she is done, Jean has both men naked from the waist down. Their legs appear to be made of alabaster.

"Good. Now see if you can find something to wrap them in."

Jean heads for the pantry as Laura turns her attention to Robbie.

"Robbie, wake up. Wake up, we need to get you warm." She gently props him up as his eyes flutter open again. She holds the half-full teacup against his chin and carefully tries to pour a tiny bit of the warm liquid between his blue lips. "C'mon, Sweetheart, try to drink this."

Jean mentally notes the endearment but concentrates on her own task. The pantry is full of boxes and tins of things, bottles, bags, and baskets. There is nothing useful here, no tablecloths, towels, or anything that might help. Not even a dust rag. Frustrated and fighting a feeling of hopelessness, she blows out her cheeks and pulls her thoughts back as they begin to stray toward the inert, white body of her junior officer. _How could he possibly be alive?_ She shuts her eyes for a moment, feeling tears rising. _Stop it, Jean_. Deep breath. She opens her eyes, and finds herself staring at a large wicker picnic hamper. Starting forward, she lifts the lid: two checked wool picnic rugs.

When Jean returns to the men, Laura is kneeling on the floor, staring sadly at Lewis and holding the nearly-forgotten teacup in both hands. It is still half full. "He's gone again," she says simply.

Jean says nothing, but lays one of the rugs on the floor next to Hathaway, and rolls him onto it. Laura comes over and helps her wrap him up as well as they can, and they both work on wrapping Lewis. It's difficult; the bodies are stiff but not straight, and they are dead weight. The women haven't been at it very long when the first police cars arrive.

Innocent shifts into her police officer role, directing the SOCOs to the body in the freezer. Two ambulance crews come in, and the women move aside so they can work. Jean is happy to cede her place to the trained medical technicians, but Laura fidgets, jockeying for a position where she can see what they are doing without getting in their way. The crews tape electrodes to the men's chests, then roll them on their sides and insert rectal temperature probes.

Laura gasps when she sees the numbers appear on the LCD readouts. Jean edges nearer to her.

"What is it?"

"That one is heart rate." She points to the monitors with electrodes. Lewis's reads 32; Hathaway's 27. "And that one is internal body temperature." The numbers are in the same range as heart rate: Lewis's core temperature registers at 31.7 degrees and Hathaway's is even less, 29.0, a full eight degrees below normal body temperature.

The crew manages to straighten Hathaway's stiff limbs well enough to get him onto the cart and strap him down after wrapping him in a thermal blanket. One of the technicians inserts an IV shunt, and soon they are dripping heated fluid into his arm.

The crew working on Lewis is doing much the same. His arms and legs have been gently straightened and they begin to wrap him in a thermal blanket. The IV is inserted and warm fluid starts to flow into his veins. But within moments, his heart monitor quits beeping and emits a steady tone of alarm. Lewis's heart has stopped, and his temperature has dropped another two-tenths of a degree. The crew chief curses. Laura's breath catches in her throat.

The crew hustles to bring a defibrillator near, and a technician calls, "Clear!" One jolt from the machine restores the beeping, and everyone sighs with relief. Laura bites the knuckles of her hand and shuts her eyes for a moment.

Then she approaches the crew chief. He blinks when he realizes he knows her.

"Doctor Hobson! I didn't recognize you in civilian clothes. You know these two officers, right?"

She nods. "Yeah, I do. Y'know John, I was wondering if there's anything more I can do. I mean . . . isn't it helpful if another person wraps up with the hypothermia victim? I'd like to help him if I can."

"Sure, that would help, if you want to crawl in on top of him." He looks at her sharply. "But skin-to-skin contact is best. I don't know how willing you are to get down to your underwear for him."

"Whatever will help the most." Her chin juts out as though she is daring him to comment.

"Fine, that's great." He hands another thermal blanket to a WPC, and directs her to shield Laura while she undresses. When that is done, Laura wraps the blanket around herself, climbs onto the cart on top of Lewis's nearly-naked body, and slides the blanket out from between them, gasping at the touch of Lewis's cold flesh on her bare skin. The technicians wrap the two together and strap them down as one.

"Be ready to jump off if we need to defibrillate him again, right?"

"Absolutely."

The crew chief glances at Innocent, and then at James, lying still as death. "What about . . .?"

Realizing the topic of conversation, Jean's eyes grow wide and she begins to shake her head. "I mean, it's one thing for him and her, they're . . ." But she has to stop. She's not certain what the Lewis/Hobson relationship is, after all.

Laura's eyes narrow. "All I know, Jean, is if this has a bad outcome and there was something I could have done to help but didn't, I'd never forgive myself." The challenge in her gaze is unmistakable.

The Chief Super lets her breath out in a hiss. She studies James's pale face one more time. So young, so much potential. So lifeless. Like a marble Michelangelo sculpture.

"Of course. Unwrap him. Get me a blanket." Giving orders helps restore her comfort level, and soon she, too, has stripped to her undergarments and can feel the cold touch of Hathaway's bare skin on hers. She shivers a little at the sensation.

One of the WPCs bags up the women's clothes and tucks them into the waiting ambulances. The two carts are loaded and secured, and the ambulances are driven speedily toward the Radcliffe. Laura calls Lewis's name throughout the trip but gets no response. Her head is turned to the side away from the monitors, and she can't tell if his temperature is increasing at all. She can't feel his heartbeat, and the time between beeps is so long she expects each one to be followed by the steady tone of cardiac arrest. What she does know is that she feels a deep, penetrating chill, like a frozen hand, squeezing her heart and numbing her skin wherever it touches Lewis. A cold despair settles a heavy weight on her back. _He's not going to make it_.


	10. Chapter 10

As soon as they arrive at the Radcliffe, the radiating capabilities of the women are no longer needed. The hospital has mattresses heated with warm water, heated blankets, and heated air for hypothermia victims to breathe. Machines draw their blood out, heat it, and return it to their bodies. Slowly their temperatures rise, one degree at a time.

Jean and Laura take their bags of clothing to a locker room where they have been directed. They dress in silence, both of them shivering now.

Laura emerges first, and she spots John from the ambulance team slurping a cup of something hot. She stares at the cup, envious. He feels her gaze and looks up.

"Doctor Hobson! You and your friend will be needing something hot, I should think. Go through there and you'll find a staff room with coffee, tea, and chocolate. Feel free to help yourselves. You two were part of our team tonight, sure enough."

She smiles her thanks, but first approaches him, her voice kept low.

"John, how do you think they are? I mean, have you seen this kind of thing before?"

He considers a moment. "Well, never a one this far gone. By the time we find them, either they're conscious but in bad shape or they're dead." He notices her stunned expression. "Oh, sorry, Doc. I didn't mean your two lads would . . . I expect they'll be pretty much okay in the end."

Innocent emerges from the locker room, and Laura thanks John for his candidness. Then she steers Jean to the room where they both clutch steaming mugs of tea and swallow most of it as soon as they can do so without burning their throats. An aide hands them each a warmed blanket and they wrap up, cozily.

Laura studies the other woman a moment. Then she makes a confession.

"I feel like I'll never be warm again, you know? As though I'm chilled from the inside out, rather than the other way."

Jean's mouth forms a line. She is naturally competitive, and she does not want to admit weakness to another woman. Or anyone else, for that matter. But she and Laura have shared something here, she knows. And the men they care for are still in too much danger to make light of anything that has transpired in the last several hours.

"It was horrible, wasn't it? I felt as though I was clutching a marble version of Hathaway. Hard, cold, and rapidly drawing the warmth out of my own body." She shudders at the recollection. "I was shivering before the ambulance got out of the drive."

Laura smiles at her, tears collecting a little in the corners of her eyes as she remembers the same sensations. What these two women have been through is nothing, of course, compared to what the two men are experiencing. Still, Laura feels an unexpected camaraderie with the chief superintendent. She inhales, then lays an arm around Jean's shoulders. Biting her lip at first, she cannot say much, but manages a little.

"We've done everything we can. It's up to the wizards of medicine now."

Jean snorts. "Wizards? They'll have to be. It'll take some kind of magic to put those two back to rights."

Laura stifles her tears in a smile. Jean smiles in return. But then her smile fades, and uncertainty haunts her eyes. She breaks eye contact to study a spot on the ceiling.

"Laura, what we did today, lying essentially naked with these men . . . No one needs to know about that, right?"

The conspiratorial grin she gets in response is all the answer Jean needs.


	11. Chapter 11

Not much later, the doctor emerges and waves them over. Concern shines in his eyes.

"How are you two heroes doing? Having any chills or trouble organizing your thoughts?"

Hobson recognizes that the birdlike twitches of his head are caused by his discreet examination of the two women. He's checking lip color, nail bed color, focus, ability of the eyes to track, and any other sign that either woman might herself be at risk from having donated so much body heat to the victim she aided.

"We're fine now, Doctor, thanks. Hot tea and a warm blanket go a long way."

He's satisfied with the truthfulness of her answer. "Good. Now, about your detectives. Mister Lewis simply needs to warm up. We've taken him off the cardiopulmonary bypass machine; his body definitely has a will to survive. No other collateral damage as far as I can tell. In a couple hours, he should be lucid enough to have visitors, though he may suffer from amnesia to some extent."

Laura is so relieved she nearly laughs out loud. But she still has one concern. "What about his heart?"

"He'll be fine. The cardiac arrest he suffered was not uncommon for hypothermia victims. It doesn't reflect on the quality of his heart."

_No, it certainly does not_, she thinks to herself.

"Mister Hathaway is still a concern, however." The doctor's manner turns somber. "The bypass machine is forcing him to warm up and I expect in a few hours we'll have a better picture of his recovery." He checks their reaction and, finding them serious but calm, continues. "He was colder, so he has farther to go. I'd say he was much closer to succumbing. It appears his survival instinct is currently suppressed."

"He wants to die." Innocent's tone is artificially flat.

The doctor tips his head toward her, kindly, and puts a hand on her arm. "I'd say right now he can't find the will to live. As he warms, I think he'll gain the strength he needs."

Again Hobson detects his subtle assessment, and can actually see when he reaches the conclusion that Innocent can handle more bad news.

"In addition to hypothermia, he has frostbite along one side of his ribcage and his fingertips on both hands are severely lacerated. He won't be typing reports for a while." He can see that Innocent's breathing has stabilized and her pupils are dilated normally. "Finally, it appears he may have sprained his right ankle. We'll check that more thoroughly when he's conscious and we can explore his range of motion. He'll most likely need a cane or crutch for a couple of weeks."

Laura can tell that Jean's mind is struggling with all the information she has been given. So she asks the one question her medical experience cannot answer.

"Doctor, why is Lewis doing so much better right now? They must have been in the freezer the same length of time and Hathaway is pretty clearly in better physical shape than Lewis."

He considers a while before answering. "Well, not everyone has the same susceptibility to hypothermia. Its mechanisms are not fully understood. But physiologically, Lewis has more body fat. We don't know how important that is, but we know it plays a role. And, while I hate to sound unscientific, I'd have to say that Lewis seems to _want_ to live, that he has something he really wants to stay alive for. Hathaway doesn't seem to have that same need to survive. In my experience, it can make a huge difference."

He runs a final assessment of each woman's state of mind. "It will be at least an hour, probably two, before Lewis is conscious enough to recognize a friend. I suggest you go try to get something done and we will call you as soon as he's ready for visitors."

Laura hates to leave but she knows she needs a distraction. Better to be back at the lab where at least she has reports to work on. She checks to see how Jean is doing.

"So . . . I was thinking of going back to the lab." What surprises Laura is this concern she now feels for the chief super.

"Fine. I have a crime scene to attend."

_Oh, there it is, that brusque, superior-to-you Jean Innocent. She's fine._ Laura smiles at the return to normalcy, gives her mobile number to the nurse on duty, and waves her fingers in farewell to Jean.

Back at the scene of the crime, Innocent regains her composure by taking over control of the officers. A DC has found Alice hiding in the wardrobe in her room. She refuses to talk and she is placed in a police car and taken to the station. The footman and butler are also brought in. These were the only servants present in the house when Lewis and Hathaway were discovered. Other units are tracking down the rest of the servants for questioning. Jean learns that Lord and Lady Hungerford will be taken into custody during the interval of _Don Giovanni_. She smiles at this. Of course, _no one_ would interrupt a Glyndebourne performance while the show is in progress.

When the scene has been secured, Innocent returns to the station. She wants to handle most of the investigation herself. She reviews the statements made by the servants in their initial questioning by PCs, which have started to come in. Her experience tells her that most of these people indeed had nothing to do with, and were unaware of, either the murder of Lady Monteith or the imprisonment of Lewis and Hathaway. But the statements of two people, Alice the cook and Harry the footman, contain several inconsistencies and their stories ring false. With these two she will spend some time.

.

.

.

Lewis rises gradually, swimming toward the surface of a dark, cold lake. He is very tired, but is certain he hears someone calling his name. He can't answer. He is so weary, so profoundly cold. He sinks back into dark oblivion without breaking the water's surface.


	12. Chapter 12

Unable to concentrate on her reports, Laura does a little research on recovering from hypothermia. What she finds relieves her a bit; the fact that the men were found while they were still alive and are now in the hands of capable medical personnel means they should be basically all right. Another thought occurred to her while she and Jean were checking out the body in the freezer, and she has to find the answer to her question before she can return to her work. The freezer was not a large room. What appeared to be a vent in one wall was not connected to anything and would not have been a source of fresh air. In fact, the freezer appeared to be airtight and for hours it contained two full-grown men, inhaling oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide. She does a quick calculation: if their metabolisms hadn't been slowed by the cold, they would have been dead of suffocation in less than twelve hours. And even with their slowed breathing, they never would have lasted twenty-four hours. They would have been dead before the police would have begun an official search. There can be no doubt that she and Jean saved the lives of the two men.

.

.

.

Slowly, consciousness creeps up on Lewis. His eyes blink open and begin to focus. The room he is in is suffused with a soft, ruddy light. He tries to turn his head to look out the window but finds his joints have rusted and his head rotates only a few degrees. He can't turn far enough to see that the bright red-and-orange-print curtains, drawn against the glare of the summer sun, are causing the rosiness in the room. The resulting light is a subtle mix of orange and red: it must be a lovely sunset, he thinks. But inexplicably, the warm glow makes Lewis shudder with an unexpected chill. It reminds him that something terrible has happened, though he does not remember what.

He manages to turn slowly in the other direction. He realizes with a jolt that he is in a hospital room. And he has a roommate. The other bed is occupied by a sleeping blonde man. He realizes that he knows this man, and the name comes unbidden. _Hathaway_. His sergeant. His friend. _What the bloody hell are we doing here?_

Lewis tries to call out Hathaway's name but emits nothing more than a huff of breath. The other man does not move.

Lewis seeks out the call button then, finding it on the rail of the bed and pressing it repeatedly with all the slow-motion frenzy he can muster.

"Mister Lewis?" The nurse's response comes immediately.

But he cannot answer more than a huff or two at the speaker on the wall. Within seconds, the door bursts open and the nurse rushes in. She stops short when she sees he is conscious and appears lucid.

"Mister Lewis! You're awake!" She hustles forward, her eyes flicking over the gauges and monitors with professional efficiency. She seems satisfied with what she sees.

"How are you feeling, Love?"

He's amused by her familiarity. "Caa . . . taa . . ." He gestures stiffly toward his uncooperative throat.

"Ah, no, of course you can't talk, Love. You're in hospital. You and your mate here nearly froze, y'know. D'you remember a-tall?"

Lewis shakes his head as quickly as he can: left . . . right . . . left . . . right.

"Ah, well. Can I get you some water? I need to let the doctor know you're awake. And your friend wants to know when you're awake, is it alright if I call her? Doctor Hobson, that is."

He smiles very faintly and nods: up . . . down.

She beams back at him. "Welcome back, Mister Lewis. It's good to see your smile." She whirls out of the room and the door closes on her enthusiasm and vitality. He is alone with his thoughts and the immense chill that still penetrates the core of his being.

'_You and your mate here nearly froze_.' He scours his memory but finds no context for this statement. All he can remember is being intensely cold for a very long time.

Not much later, Hobson bursts through the doorway, her cheeks flushed from racing to the room when she got the nurse's call.

"Robbie!"

She is at his side in a flash, arms out, eyes dancing, ready to . . . She stops short, awkwardly unsure of her next move. Lewis's response is barely visible, and she is uncertain how to proceed. Tentatively, she leans down, puts her arms around him as best she can, and gives him a hug.

Beneath his inert exterior, Lewis's heart swells. She is so full of life, so full of heat and energy. He manages to ease his arms up and around her. He wants to absorb her completely and he seems to vaguely remember her sharing her warmth with him at the moment he most needed it. He slides back into sleep, but this time it is a warm, happy place.

.

.

.

Innocent has met with unexpected resistance from Alice, who is utterly loyal to her Lady and refuses to say anything about what Lady Hungerford said or did. Harry exhibits the same stubbornness. She has gotten nothing of use from them except for the certainty that they know much more than they are willing to reveal. It will be several hours before the Hungerfords are brought in. Jean pounds her desk in frustration. She is out of practice at conducting interviews and she knows she has made mistakes that have only tightened her suspects' lips. She _must_ find out who is responsible for the death of her friend, Lady Monteith, as well as the ambush of her best detectives. _Why doesn't the hospital call with news? Oh, Hathaway, why did I push you into becoming a sergeant at your age? Please come out of this okay._

A knock on her office door so startles her that she nearly bursts into tears. "_What?_"

Her sergeant enters with a bit of trepidation. "Ma'am?"

Innocent exhales. "Yes, Mary, what is it?" Her softened tone informs Mary that she's done nothing wrong and it's safe to proceed.

"Doctor Chen from the Radcliffe just rang. Inspector Lewis is awake."

.

.

.

The Chief Super strides into the room. "Well, Lewis—" She stops short when she realizes Lewis and Doctor Hobson are fully entwined on his bed, snogging. No, that's not quite right; they're only hugging. And now that she looks more carefully, she sees Laura is not actually on the bed but leaning over it. Still, there can be no doubt that she and Lewis have their arms around each other.

Hobson looks up, a pained expression on her face. "Oh, Jean. Can you . . . ? He won't let go."

Innocent pries Lewis's arms away from Laura and she straightens with a groan, her hands rubbing her lower spine. Her sudden absence wakes Lewis and his eyes open and travel around the room. He cracks a faint smile when he sees his boss.


	13. Chapter 13

Innocent closes her notepad with a grim smile of satisfaction. Lewis was right, and she did the right thing by confiding in him her frustrations over the fruitless interviews. His ideas on how to make the witnesses talk were spot-on. Under the threat of being charged with conspiracy to commit murder, Harry the footman suddenly was more than happy to answer all of the chief superintendent's questions. He explained how Lady Hungerford was livid when she learned of her husband's affair with their neighbor. How he helped his Mistress drag the body into the large freezer and hang it on the meat hook. But he was adamant that the killing—and the idea to kill—was Lady Hungerford's alone. And when he said he didn't know anything about the disappearance of the detectives, Jean believed him. He had last seen them in the company of Alice, and the following morning was told by Lord Hungerford to deny any knowledge of the visits by Lady Monteith and the policemen.

"Why would His Lordship help cover up the death of his lover?"

At this question, Harry had furrowed his brow, perplexed by Innocent's apparent ignorance. "Well, _obviously_ the reputation of the Hungerfords is more important than his sordid little affair." All Jean could do was to shake her head and muse that it was just as well Lewis was no longer on the case. He would have had plenty to say about such an attitude.

Lewis had been right about Alice, too. His advice was to leave Lady Hungerford out of it—Alice would never betray her—and focus instead on having Alice describe the actions she took on her own initiative. He remembered Alice locking them in the freezer and was certain that it had been her own idea. Indeed, to this she confessed readily—proudly even—as well as admitting to forging a letter purportedly signed by Lady Monteith and addressed to her husband.

Alice fairly beamed when she declared, "I'm very good at copying other people's handwriting!" But she would not explain who came up with the words or who asked her to imitate Lady Monteith's script.

Now it has all come out except for the confessions of the Hungerfords. They are still en route to Oxford, but Innocent is no longer concerned about them. There is enough evidence to convict them even if they refuse, or are not offered the chance, to plead. No, her focus is on someone else, and she waits impatiently for the telephone to ring.


	14. Chapter 14

The curtains remain drawn, and the room is still washed in dim, orange light. Lewis becomes aware of slight movement in the other bed. Hathaway's breathing shifts, becoming irregular, and his head turns a degree or two in Lewis's direction. Turning toward James, Lewis can see two eyes glinting at him.

"Hey, Hathaway. We made it out." He can tell that Hathaway is having the same trouble he had with uncooperative vocal cords. Lewis buzzes the nurse.

"We need some water in here for Sergeant Hathaway." While they wait, Lewis studies the depth of James's eyes.

"D'you remember me, James?"

Hathaway stares a long time, giving the impression that he does _not_ remember. In truth, it takes him far longer to rally his neck muscles into nodding than it does to recognize his guv'nor.

Up . . . down . . . up . . . down.

Lewis wants to run over and hug his sergeant, but the electrodes, IV tube, and catheter bind him as effectively as steel chains to his bed.

The nurse enters and after a quick appraisal and asking a few questions of Hathaway, she gives him a sip of water and waits to see if he will speak. He merely looks away.

The nurse firms her lips into a line. "Mister Hathaway, are you ready for visitors? Your friends would like to see you." She speaks quietly.

Left . . . right . . . left . . . right.

"That's fine, you take your time. But I do need to tell the doctor you're awake." She sets the cup of water on the table next to his bed.

Hathaway exhales loudly after she leaves. He does not look at Lewis.

Silence settles over the room, except for the rhythmic hisses and beeps of the monitors. Lewis is worried about Hathaway, but decides for the time being he should be allowed to sort out his own memories and emotions.

Doctor Chen enters the room and smiles briefly at Lewis before approaching Hathaway. "Well, Sergeant, let's see how you're doing." He runs some basic tests, asks some basic questions—which to Lewis's relief, Hathaway answers—and checks the chart in his hand.

"Well, Sir, you're recovering very nicely. Do you remember being locked in a freezer for over twelve hours?"

Lewis can see James shake his head, _No_.

"Ah, that's typical. I believe your roommate here has been filled in by the two women who rescued you. I'm certain he'll be happy to tell you as much as he knows, if you're interested."

Lewis wants to make some contact with his sergeant. "Yeah, Hathaway, Hobson and Innocent found us. It's a pretty amazing story." He smiles eagerly, but Hathaway's countenance is stony.

The doctor continues his review. "You're suffering the effects of severe hypothermia—amnesia and general confusion—and you're not quite up to proper temperature yet, so you're bound to feel tired and chilled. In addition, you have frostbite here—" he indicates to James some bandages on his side, "and your fingertips have taken a beating. We're not sure what exactly you did to them, but most likely it was some attempt to dig your way out." He pulls out and checks Hathaway's hands, and Lewis can see that each of the ten digits bears a little white turban of gauze and tape.

Doctor Chen turns a bit stern. "These will hurt like hell, Mister Hathaway, I guarantee it. Your job is to ask for painkillers whenever these command the focus of your energy. Alright?"

James snorts and turns away. Lewis bites back, for now, what he wants to say: _You DON'T deserve this pain, it is NOT your penance for some intangible sin you committed._ He knows Hathaway is thinking along such lines. But he'll work James over later, after the doctor has gone.

The doctor has one more piece of news. "We think your right ankle is sprained. Can I see it now?"

Hathaway permits the doctor to release his right leg from the bedcovers.

"Good. Now flex it as far as you can this way . . . Good. And that way . . . Very nice. Now over here . . . Okay, thank you for your efforts. We will need to take an X-ray to complete our assessment. I don't think you will need a hard cast. Wrapping or maybe an air cast should be enough. A crutch for a couple of weeks. And then you should be back in fine form. Ironically, spending several hours ice-cold and inert was the best thing you could have done for it." He makes a note in the chart. "Do you have any questions for me?"

Lewis is unsurprised when Hathaway has none.

"Alright then, I'll go arrange for your x-ray." The doctor goes out, and silence fills the room for nearly an hour.

At last, Lewis can stand it no longer.

"Hathaway? We got out in time. It's a _good_ thing."

James snorts.

"Alright, why isn't it a good thing?"

The sergeant inhales and holds the breath for a moment. "It never should have happened. It's my fault we were trapped in there at all."

Lewis expected the guilt but ponders Hathaway's answer. "Do you remember that? 'Cos I really am having trouble with me memory."

"I remember you yelling at me about procedure. _Never be in the same position as your partner_, right? Basic stuff. I was an idiot."

"Ah. I do sort of remember that. Sorry for yelling at you."

Hathaway snorts again.

Lewis continues the thread. "How about, _The senior officer stays with the suspect while the junior officer checks out the new situation_? Who violated that one?"

Another snort. And an angry reply. "That's not what nearly killed us. If I'd only stayed out with the cook, your violation wouldn't have mattered."

"And if _I'd_ stayed out with the cook, as I should have, _your_ violation wouldn't have been a violation!"

It's bordering on a real argument, and Lewis backs away from it.

"Look, James. You made a mistake. Let go of it." He lowers his voice. "You hold on too long to something that's over and gone and you find you have no spare hands for pullin' yourself forward." Lewis realizes he isn't talking only about Hathaway.

"_I almost killed us both!_"

Lewis keeps his voice soft. "Yeah, but you didn't. Whether that's by luck, pluck, or Divine intervention, I don't know. But we've been given a gift, and the chance to learn from it. And I don't mean just learning how important proper procedure is. Now, maybe you haven't learned anything else. But I've had a good lesson in what's really important to me. In fact, I'd say I've passed me A-levels in What's Really Important to Me."

He has Hathaway's full attention now, but he stops talking, the whirl of his own thoughts taking him far from the room.

"Sir? What is that?"

"What?" Lewis blinks.

Hathaway pauses. "Never mind. I think I know the answer anyway."

The two are silent for a while.

Turning so he can really see his sergeant, Lewis asks him in a gentle voice:

"Do you remember anything at all? I mean, I think I remember stuff but some of it couldn't have happened. Like, I remember hearing jingling, and our Val coming and talking to us."

"I remember being on fire."

Lewis snorts. "Bloody hell." He smiles wryly at the irony of that. "Your punishment for teasing me about thermo-whatsit."

"Thermoregulation, Sir." Hathaway is studying his boss. "What did Val have to say?"

"She asked me to come with her. But I . . . I didn't want to."

"'Cos of Hobson?"

Lewis is silent, and James fears he has overstepped his boundaries once again. "Sorry, Sir, that just slipped out."

Lewis breathes a quiet laugh. "Y'know, one thing I seem to remember is Laura offering to warm me up by wrapping herself in a blanket with me. Naked." He looks up at James with a crooked smile of disbelief.

"Lucky you."

"Naw, she wouldn't have done. It didn't happen, any more than your fire happened."

"Why not? That's one of the best ways to warm someone who's suffering from hypothermia."

Lewis shakes his head. "Nah."

"Think about it, Sir. She and Innocent were the ones who found us, so she was there. If someone said, 'If you do this, it will help him recover,' she wouldn't hesitate. You _know_ she would do it."

A pleased smile tickles its way across the older man's lips. Then his eyes open a bit wider. "So d'you think that means Innocent would have . . . ?" He ends the question with a nod toward James.

"_That_ is a very interesting question."


	15. Chapter 15

A week has passed. Lewis is entertaining James, Laura, and Jean at his flat. It's nothing fancy, wine and take-away pizza. Lewis had informed the others he would be happy to host the gathering but only on the condition that he would not be required to open the freezer compartment of his refrigerator.

"I can't do it. I'll have to pay someone to come clear it out, I suppose, but every time I feel that chill, I get nightmares."

It's the first time the four have been together since the ambulances pulled away from Hungerford House with sirens screaming. The men can remember only a few bits and pieces of their experience. The women have filled them in on the events they know about, with the single exception of the one fact they have silently sworn to hold back. Lewis has fully recovered his physical health, but Hathaway still uses a crutch to get around. His fingertips are no longer raw and bleeding but most are still bandaged, tender to the touch. It will be a long time before the nails grow back where they were torn. The frostbite blisters on the side of his ribcage have mostly broken, and the flesh underneath is beginning to heal. Both men have a different bearing than they did before: more sober about what is important, yet at the same time more appreciative of good friends and a good laugh. In short, they are paying more attention to Life.

Lewis is on his third glass of wine and he's laughing more readily than he did earlier in the evening. He throws an arm around Innocent's shoulders, chuckling to himself.

"So Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent broke into a rich man's house like a common thief."

She punches him on the arm. "Stop it, Robbie, I had no criminal intent. And you of all people should be grateful I did so."

"Aw, I am grateful, believe me. You really showed up when you needed to. And you also gave me something to hold over your head if I have to." He smiles to himself. "Y'know, Jean, you were certainly right about one thing. You told me those Lords and Ladies are not like me. And that is very true. If I learned me wife was having a bit on the side, I think I'd consider couples counseling or even divorce. Maybe I'd punch the guy. But _murder_ just wouldn't seem like a reasonable option to me." He looks at her with a pointed smirk. "I suppose that's a failing of me working class breeding, a belief that we're answerable to the law."

Hathaway watches with amusement. Jean notices he seems to be studying her closely. She sidles over to him. "James? What's on your mind?"

He twists a smile before answering. "It strikes me that you and Hobson must be holding something back. Are you sure you've told us everything? I mean, Lewis has said he thinks he remembers sharing some seriously close body heat with Hobson." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "I'd hate to think you just stood there and let me freeze . . ."

Jean shoots Laura a panicked look that pretty well gives everything away. Laura shakes her head with a wide-eyed, blameless expression, mouthing her denial: _I never said anything!_

The two men look at each other, both of them sprouting sideways, growing smiles. Lewis raises his eyebrows. "Well, now, Doctor, is there something you should have told us?"

She only flashes a sassy grin.

Jean glares at her. "Laura? A word, please?"

She drags the doctor into the spare room. "If you tell him, I'll . . ." Unfortunately for her, they both realize Innocent has very little ability to threaten the other woman.

Hobson narrows her eyes. "I said I wouldn't tell. I meant it." She folds her arms across her chest.

"Then how does Robbie know?"

Laura shakes her head. "I don't know that he _does_ know. Maybe he sort of remembers the ambulance ride. Or _thinks_ he does." She frowns, thinking. "Let me talk to him. I'll try to convince him it's all in his head." She raises one eyebrow. "But it would help if you could act just a tad less guilty."

By the time the evening is winding down, the subject has not come up again. Laura creeps up behind Robbie, reaching her arms around his waist and clasping her hands in front.

He turns his head around, surprised. "Hey, what's all this?"

"I'd like to talk to you about something kind of important."

He flashes his eyebrows and grins. Then his grin freezes on his face. His brow furrows, struggling with a buried memory.

"Why does that sound familiar to me?"

"It's pretty nearly the last thing you said to me before you went into the deep freeze. What _was_ that important thing you wanted to discuss?"

James remembers overhearing that conversation and decides it is time to let them have their discussion in private. "You know, I think I'd better get on home. Ma'am, would you like to share a taxi?"

Innocent opens her mouth and then closes it. She realizes Laura needs time to talk to Robbie. "Fine."

When the door has closed and the two other guests have departed, Lewis turns his full attention to Laura. He wears an apologetic half-smile.

"I'm sorry, Laura, I honestly can't remember what it is I wanted to talk to you about. If it really was important, it'll come up again. My mind kind of mixes up real memories with dreams and visions that never happened. Like, I would swear you sort of . . _. offered yourself_ to warm me up."

She cocks her head, a small smirk playing on her lips. "'_Offered_ _myself_'?"

"Erm, yeah." He blushes. "Naked."

She raises her eyebrows. "Ah. Wishful thinking, perhaps?"

He blushes more deeply. "_Laura!_" He peeks at her. "I was wondering if it was maybe me memory coming back?"

Her smirk turns into a wide smile. "Now, Robbie, would you have forgotten something like that, if it had really happened?"

"No, but that's the point. I think I _do_ remember it."

Her eyes sparkle. "As you say, Robbie: _That's the point_." She winks at his astonished smile. "And I didn't say that, in case anyone asks."

.

.

.

* * *

Much of the description in this story of the effects of hypothermia owes its existence (and this author owes a debt of gratitude) to Peter Stark, "As Freezing Persons Recollect the Snow—First Chill—Then Stupor—Then the Letting Go," _Outside Magazine_, January 1997, available at the Outsideonline website.


End file.
